


The Witching Flour

by pandabomb



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Anxious Katsuki Yuuri, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Chubby Katsuki Yuuri, Human/Vampire Relationship, M/M, Mystery, Mystical Creatures, References to Drugs, Supernatural Elements, Urban Fantasy, Vampire Victor Nikiforov, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-05 19:30:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19046893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandabomb/pseuds/pandabomb
Summary: Katsuki Yuuri works at his friend's coffee shop in a sleepy college town, and his once-promising life is now very, very boring. He can't afford his own place, can't seem to stop gaining weight, and to top it all off, has been seeing strange things in the darkness - things that should not exist.When a beautiful man knocks on the door of the cafe one winter night, Yuuri's very, very boring life takes a turn from the mundane to the magical.[on hiatus for now]





	The Witching Flour

**Author's Note:**

> [originally posted on my tumblr](https://pandabomb.tumblr.com/post/185195981618/first-chapter-of-an-au-i-started-a-long-while-ago)

All Yuuri could see was string.

Why, he didn’t know. _How_ was easy: the strings were unreeling from his chest, tumbling from his creaked-open ribs like the little doors of a cuckoo clock. Lengths of many colors split in all directions, greens and blues and oranges fluttering through the air, out the windows, and between the crevices of doors and floorboards.

His fingers brushed over them delicately. Loose as they were, the strings could be plucked, thrumming under Yuuri’s touch like the wavering, untuned song of a harp. Or perhaps more like windchimes. As his hand wove among them, the strings whistled, clacked, and twanged against his fingers. Some quieted when he pinched them tight; others sang with only greater conviction.

He had the inexplicable urge to yank them all taut—to hear their true sound; to see how long they were—to stuff them back in his chest and slam his ribs shut tight—

An alarm blared in the darkness, yanking him awake.

Moonlight seeped through his bedroom windows. Yuuri’s hand bapped a few times on the scuffed-up hardwood until his palm landed on his blaring phone; with a hurried swipe, he silenced the incessant wailing and checked the time.

It was 2:00 AM.

Time to get up for work.

Yuuri clambered his way out of the futon like he was liberating himself from quicksand. He peered blearily in the milky darkness, searching for his thick-rimmed glasses; once found, he slid them on slowly, stuffed his phone in his sweatpants pocket, and started the clumsily trudge to the bathroom, then the dimly illuminated kitchen, around the corner, and finally to the door at the bottom of the stairs.

He stumbled in and smacked on the lights with a loud, clumsy _whap_.

Then, for a solid thirty seconds, all he could do was stand there and squint open-mouthed at his own reflection.

His hair was standing up like he’d been electrocuted. From the black birds’-nest, his ears protruded large and wide—the pride of any self-respecting elephant—and his cheeks and chin looked fuller than ever. If he had ever boasted a striking profile, it had surely vanished by now, leaving in its place an undercooked dinner roll squashed vaguely into a face. Just two raisins slapped into the center of a brioche.

 _I suppose that’s fitting_ , Yuuri thought to himself in resignation.

He sighed.

After scrubbing away the taste of sleep with toothpaste and mouthwash, Yuuri felt marginally more alive. He ran a comb under the faucet and tried to calm his horrifically cow-licked hair. It would never be fully controlled—not enough time, and it had grown too long—so he resolved to just push it all away from his forehead with a long, elastic headband. For some reason, he had a ridiculous number of those splattered about the apartment, sprinkled among the other everyday flotsam and jetsam of discarded receipts, disposable utensils, an inexplicably endless supply of bobby pins.

Yuuri splashed some water onto his face, hoping to wake up a little more. He’d slept in navy blue sweats and a gray sweatshirt, colors from his alma mater. He considered changing clothes for work, but honestly, who would care? By the time the customers came in, he was usually just washing dishes or prepping in the back. It didn’t matter a lick what he wore.

He stepped from the bathroom and made his way down the hall, towards the front door. His black snow-boots waited by the door. His well-used winter coat, also black, had long passed its heyday—but it had also seen him through college, so it would be awhile yet until Yuuri got rid of it.

Coat, gloves, beanie, and scarf all layered on, Yuuri took a bracing breath. Then he shouldered open the front door.

“ _Shit_ ,” he hissed, flinching against the immediate blast of frigid air.

He burrowed his neck and squishy jawline as deeply as possible into his scarf—his mind offering him the image of a grumpy, overgrown turtle as he did so. He shut the door and locked it behind him. His front door was one floor up from the ground, up a flight of wooden stairs on the side of a large Victorian home converted into multiple rental units; only diligent shoveling kept the rickety staircase from totally collapsing under Michigan’s heavier snowfalls. As Yuuri descended, he treaded as carefully as possible, only skidding once on black ice before getting to his bike.

Next came the real difficulty—sorting through the mess of keys and charms on his keyring. There was the house key, the laundry room key, his room key, the key to the P.O. box, the café key, the bike lock key; six charms either given to him by loved ones, won in raffles, or bought on various trips: a pink _en pointe_ charm from Mari, a threadbare Totoro from a guess-the-number-of-marbles game in a gift shop in Tokyo, a puffy palm tree from Los Angeles, a small plastic-encased picture of his family’s old poodle, an “I Love Motor City” keychain, a little golden elephant and sparkly scented donut charm, both from Phichit—

A loud _snort_ sliced through the darkness.

Yuuri went still, letting the jingle of keychains come to a halt.

The nearest streetlight had sputtered out its last two weeks ago. But there was moonlight plenty—and with it, across the gravel lot, Yuuri could see the hint of a huge, dark, bulking form looming among the nearest bushes. As Yuuri’s vision adjusted, he could see that the hulking creature’s eyes shimmered ever-so-slightly in the moonlight, shining yellow-green as if it were suspended in a camera’s flash.

It snuffled again lightly. Yuuri heard its breaths, measured and heavy, like it was taking large yet controlled gulps of air.

Those eyes, parallel to the ground, went slowly sideways—as though its head were…tilting. Observing him curiously.

A bear. It must be a bear. A very large bear.

Yuuri suddenly had no problem locating his bike lock key. Without looking away from the animal once—without even blinking—he freed the bike, looped the lock snugly over his forearm, and kicked off, tires spraying gravel before finding grip on pavement.

He started the trek to work at a much, much faster pace than usual, every pump of the pedals bringing more wakefulness and peace of mind.

Everything was fine. He’d seen weird things in the early-AM before. A few times, he’d woken passed-out drunks by poking them in the head with a stick. Other times, he could’ve sworn he’d seen specters floating beneath streetlamps and in the soft illuminations of houselights—the kind of visions he’d always imagined he could see as a child, like the _youkai_ or the glint of distant _kitsunebi_ floating and flickering in a field. Compared to those things, seeing a bear at 2 AM was downright mundane.

 _But_ , he thought, mind finally catching up as he pedaled harder. _It’s the dead of winter. Why would a bear even be_ **_awake_** _?_

Well. That wasn’t his business.

Except maybe it was—because Yuuri still had the sense that he was being watched.

A quick glance over his shoulder revealed nothing except quiet streets, snowpiles, and the black criss-crossing of powerlines overhead. He had only a handful of blocks left. He would keep calm. He was riding a bike in the center of the road; no bear awake in winter, likely hungry but very groggy, would go after such troublesome and demanding prey. It could easily find a good dumpster to root through. He was safe. He was also paranoid, but rationally—and most importantly—he was safe.

And yet…

Yuuri hit a hard right. The café was only two blocks away now. Just to make sure, he glanced again over his shoulder, back down the way he’d come.

A flash of black ducked behind a snowpile, like ink spilling back into its well.

“ _The fuck_ ,” Yuuri whispered weakly, words jolting into the air with a puff of warm smoke.

That was not how bears moved. That wasn’t how _anything he knew of_ moved, except something out of an absolute nightmare. He hadn’t heard _anything_ —not a patter, a pant, or a growl; it was like he had glimpsed a shadow incarnate, a blur of nothingness against the sparkling glimmer of moonlit snow.

Which was just silly.

He must have imagined it. That was quite obviously the answer here.

This rationalization did not stop him from pedaling even faster.

The café, nestled into another old Victorian-style—this one painted a light, dusty rose, surrounded by a white picket fence, and far better maintained than Yuuri’s building—glowed like a sleepy beacon in the hushed, snowy night. Its sign, a dusk-pink wooden cutout that read _‘White_ _Picket Perk_ ’ in bubbly cursive, was flushed peach in the yellowy streetlights. The front windows, huge and bright in the daytime, were obscured by luscious velvet and lace curtains.

Yuuri slid to a stop at the front door so quickly that his bike spun out. He didn’t bother to lock it up; he just rushed up the porch, brought the café key to the lock, turned until it _clicked_ , yanked the door open, and threw his weight back on it the moment he was inside.

He wrenched the lock. Took a deep breath.

Warm. _Safe_.

Yuuri pressed his forehead against the cool glass, letting a pant out slowly. He scanned outside with a squint, looking for anything out of the ordinary—any kind of movement at all, really.

Nothing.

Yuuri bit his lip. He should probably go back outside and lock up his bike.

Or not.

Instead, he stamped his boots on the _‘I don’t love coffee—I need it!’_ welcome mat, took a few steps away from the door, and turned to face the café interior.

The shop’s décor didn’t follow much uniformity. It had old and new pieces, all of it with creaky wood and plush cushions and lace-edged tablecloths. Pieces by local artists hung on the walls; an antique hutch held jewelry crafted by a neighborhood craft-worker. A communal bulletin board was tucked on the right wall, by the restroom and a counter holding supplies for to-go customers. In the left and back, by the small doorway to the employees’ areas, a few well-worn floral couches framed a low table full of magazines. A bookshelf and bin for old coffee grounds (good for composts and gardens) were nestled against the back wall.

The front counter itself was made of tile, the kind used in an elderly aunt’s outdated 1950s bathroom. Most of their “rustic style” baked goods—which, to Yuuri, meant “don’t expect a fancy frosting job”—were displayed there in the open air, behind a glass barrier. Others were stored in the refrigerated case beneath. A glance told him that the mixed-berry pie had all sold out yesterday. That was good; it hadn’t been left to go half-off again. But there was also a pile of those jalapeño corn muffins—he’d warned Yuuko that nobody was interested in spicy, savory baked goods at a sweets-and-coffee shop, but she loved them herself, so she’d probably ask him to make them again whenever the craving came back.

Another deep, calming breath, and Yuuri went to the storage room to peel off his winter layers. As he methodically stripped and tossed his gloves, coat, hat, bike lock, and scarf onto the closet floor—switching his snow boots for his favorite fur-lined high-grip slippers, which he always left in shop—he mentally catalogued the batters and doughs he’d need to prep. Low on carrot cake; completely out of vegan shortbread; he’d probably be able to stretch the blueberry muffin batter for another day.

Yuuri hitched on his favorite apron, the blue one with big pockets and a bunch of little ice-skating penguins on it, and fell into his familiar routine. He went to the back room, flicking on the lights there—not to the whole shop; just enough to see by—and plugged his phone into the auxiliary cord. He set the station to Clara Schumann.

Yuuri always worked in the front, at the big foggy-marble island next to the (shiny, modern) espresso machine and the (old, junky) convection oven. There he had plenty of space to set the supplies where he liked them: pie crust on the rack to defrost; carton of two-and-half dozen eggs on the center island; a risen yeast dough on the back counter, lid propped off to let it warm up a little faster.

Just for fun, Yuuri punched that dough down, watching it deflate and retreat from his fist with utmost satisfaction.

With everything set out, he brought the muffin tins down from their usual perch on top of the cooling rack. He doused them in canola oil (he didn’t have the time or emotional strength to pry out stuck muffins, he just _didn’t_ ) and peeled the lid off the first bucket of batter, the cinnamony carrot cake, before plunging a scoop inside and drawing out a glob of mix.

He squeezed the handle, making a small mechanism scrape the batter out. The batter plopped into the first slot of the muffin tin with a lazy, dead drop.

Scoop, plop. Scoop, plop. Scoop, plop.

He’d forgotten to preheat. He set the oven to 350 Farenheit—180 Celsius—and the fans inside blared to life. Why hadn’t America ever made the switch to Celsius? Was it sheer arrogance, or because they just couldn’t be assed? The latter, Yuuri guessed. If there was one thing he envied of the Americans, it was that consistent egotism.

Scoop, plop. Scoop, plop.

The current song, Robert Schumann’s opus 110, wound down into _Ziemlich langsam_. Yuuri’s heels lifted off the floor idly, then rocked back down, settling into a half-assed fourth position.

Scoop, plop.

Their oven really was junky, not to mention tiny. Yuuri wished Yuuko would get rid of the proofer they never used—they’d stopped making their own croissants and danishes a year before Yuuri had even started—and get another oven, but that was money the shop simply didn’t have. And it meant that when the muffins baked, they took up the entire thing.

The routine went on. Mixing new batters as the muffins baked. Setting out the cookies. Pulling the muffins. Eating a leftover carrot muffin, smeared with a palm’s worth of cream cheese frosting. He worked hard; he could use the extra boost. And besides, nothing that happened before 3 AM was real. Those calories didn’t count.

He was finished with the muffins, cookies, scones, and had set both a pumpkin bread and a gluten-free vegan cardamom-almond loaf into the oven (surprisingly good, for such a fussy and pretentious recipe; such was the power of maple syrup) when he heard it.

A knock on the door.

Yuuri paused where he stood. In the sudden quiet, he was acutely aware of how hot it was next to the oven, how much he stunk of cookie dough, and how his heels had lifted off the ground again, following the swelling crescendo of piano and strings emanating from the shop speakers. He dropped his feet as soon as he’d noticed, body jolting slightly as his heels hit the floor.

Again, at the door: _tap tap tap._

There was a man there. The café door was mostly glass; although he was shrouded in darkness, Yuuri could still vaguely see him, shoulders broad and coat thin. Only a sandy-hued trenchcoat and dark slacks—in January?

_Tap tap tap._

“Sorry, we’re closed,” Yuuri called out distractedly. It wouldn’t be the first time a wandering drunk had mistaken the dim, few baker’s lights for an open storefront.

The man lifted his long, slender hand into the air—and sketched a little wave.

“Yes, I see you,” Yuuri said, a little louder this time. He walked closer, wiping his flour-dusted hands onto his splattered apron. Perhaps the man couldn’t hear well through the door. “I can’t let you in. We’re not op—”

Yuuri nearly swallowed his tongue.

In the dim lights of the café—and the silvery glow of the full moon—he could suddenly see every miniscule detail of the man’s form. He was a few inches taller than Yuuri, and composed of long, clean, exquisite vertical lines, the flow of which was cut with the horizontal for the most elegant of effects: a downward sweep of silver hair, interrupting razored cheekbones; a prominent nose perched above a heartlike, rose-pink Cupid’s bow. Yuuri could see how his jewel-eyes glimmered like a cat’s in the low light—as blue and vivid as the smooth inner-ice of a glacier—and boasted a gorgeous fan of long, pale eyelashes.

As Yuuri continued to stare, thunderstruck, he watched as the man’s mouth curled into a close-mouthed smile, one as warm and welcoming as the glimmer of a familiar star.

“Hi, hello,” the man said, offering another little wave.

 _Holy fucking god_ , Yuuri thought in awed dismay. _I might die here. On this spot_. That voice, in only three syllables, had not only drowned out but horrifically _humiliated_ the beauty of the classical music still tinkling through the shop speakers.

“What is your name?”

Yuuri blinked precisely five times. He counted. The man did not vanish into a burst of moonlight. Yuuri’s jaw, however, was attempting an ambitious escape; he closed his mouth with an audible _click_ , then tried to remember who he even _was_.

“Yuuri,” he said in a humiliating, breathy squeak.

The man made a face for a moment—an _is that so?_ sort of expression—before he chuckled, wry in a way Yuuri didn’t understand. “Yuuri. A good name. Mine is Viktor.”

“Viktor,” Yuuri repeated dumbly.

“May I ask you for a favor, _saharniy?”_

That had been—Russian? Some sort of Slavic. Regardless, it was Yuuri’s favorite language. It was an incredibly sexy manner of speaking; most likely the greatest ever conceived. “Anything,” Yuuri replied, word leaking out from his slack lips.

“Can you please unlock the door? I would like to come inside.”

Oh. Of course. He could do that. Except…“I’m sorry.”

Viktor blinked. After a beat, he asked: “What for?”

“I…I can’t.”

“Hm? Can’t what?”

Viktor did not blink then. He held Yuuri’s eye without flinching, and it was as though an iron hand had taken hold of Yuuri’s brain, heavy and steel-smooth, and tried to haul him underwater—into the inescapable sapphire swell of those eyes. Even the man’s skin seemed to absorb and throw back the moonlight, a pearl in the shadows, a cloud dancing among the unhindered stars.

Yuuri hadn’t known that this sort of ephemerality was possible. All Viktor did was _stand there_ , looking at him serenely, and Yuuri couldn’t seem to remember _what_ —

“I…I can’t…”

Yuuri’s spine tingled as he dragged in a deep breath. His fingernails, the ends bone-white with bits of flour underneath, dug into his skin like tiny anchors.

“I can’t…let you in.”

And then Yuuri blushed furiously, head swimming in a sudden, light-headed rush of reflexive guilt and embarrassment.

“I see,” Viktor said with a frown. A slight, delicate tilt of his head displayed his neck beautifully, like an unblemished column of alabaster; those electric eyes were still fixed on Yuuri, utterly trapping and throttling him in baffling wonder. “But why not? The lock is right there—” Viktor finally looked away, at the lock; it was like a rubber band snapping—“and you could turn it. You could open the door for me. Couldn’t you, _saharniy?”_

Yuuri gnawed on his lip, shifting restlessly where he stood. The lock _was_ right there, begging to be turned. It would take all of a split-second to complete the request.

“But,” Yuuri said weakly, face crumpling, “we’re closed.”

Viktor smiled sharply, like a candle lit afresh. “Ah, but does that _really_ matter?” Before Yuuri could respond, Viktor trailed that enchanting gaze down and up his body, grinning indulgently as he took note of Yuuri’s flour-drenched ensemble, penguin-print apron and all. “Look at you, in your little apron. Aren’t you the sweetest thing?”

Yuuri nearly choked on his own spit.

“You are _adorable_ , Yuuri. Plenty good enough to eat,” Viktor said, voice a caramel dripping through the glass. “Won’t you help me? All I want is to come inside. Then I could be a little closer….”

For once in his life, Yuuri’s brain was firing on all cylinders, and they were all spouting a mess of hot steam and aroused terror. Methodically—and feeling rather drunk, for some strange reason—Yuuri reviewed what was happening. Viktor said he was cute. Viktor wanted to come inside. Yuuri (who, apparently, was cute) could help him accomplish this. Perhaps, if they had no barrier separating them, the magnificent man would still look at him, talk to him, but at an even closer proximity. What an incredible gift that would be, Yuuri thought; how lucky and blessed would he count himself?

With all these factors considered, what choice was there? Yuuri knew what he had to do.

But as his eyes dragged away from the rapturous vision in front of him, down to where the lock was, Yuuri caught sight of the oily smudge where he’d rested his forehead on the glass before.

The sheer ugliness of it jolted some of his lucidity back.

His forehead was oily. His belly still continued to grow, slowly, forcing him to loosen the tie of his apron just that little bit more every day. His hair was haphazardly shoved into a coffee-stained elastic headband. He probably had a smear of yellow batter on his face. And Viktor said he was _cute?_

Eyes still locked on the door’s glass, Yuuri mumbled: “None of this makes any sense.”

“Hm?” Viktor said, voice a syrupy chirp. “What doesn’t?”

“This,” Yuuri repeated firmly. He rubbed his temple with one hand; a headache was coming on. “Why should I let you in? We’re closed.”

For a long, silent five seconds—Yuuri counted those too—Viktor didn’t say a word.

“Ah…well, um.” Viktor glanced around flittingly, as though looking for an easy reply lying around on the porch. “Because you’re cute, and I don’t want this door to stand between us—”

“But that’s just not believable,” Yuuri cut in, slurring a little. He shook his head enough to rattle; smeared both hands on his apron. Why did he feel so _drunk?_

Viktor frowned. “Of course it is.”

“No, it’s a stupid reason. I look like hell. There’s batter in my hair.”

Viktor’s eyes went wide, mouth twisting as though he wanted to smile, but was too thrown off to commit to it. “All right. What should I say, then?”

Yuuri considered this, mouth pursing and nose scrunching in thought. Thinking was rather difficult at present, but he could probably come up with something. “Let’s see…it’s January, and you’re wearing practically nothing.”

“Oh, good one,” Viktor said cheerfully. “I’m very cold. You should let me in because I’ll get—hypoterm—”

“Hypothermia?”

“Yes! That one. I’ll get hypothermia otherwise.”

Yuuri considered that for another moment. It did make sense. “Okay,” he said, and reached for the lock.

“Wonderful!” Viktor clapped his hands together, then joined them together tightly. He grinned at Yuuri warmly, and there was a twin-glimmer of two sharp, white things peeking out, quite like—

“Fangs?” Yuuri mumbled, confused and halted all over again.

In a flash, Viktor brought one hand up to cover mouth. “Yuuri, my sweet,” he said gently, around curled fingers. “Please, remember the hypothermia.”

A slow breath left Yuuri’s chest; he nodded shakily. “You do look very pale.”

“That’s right.”

“But, wait—”

“ _What_ is it?” Viktor asked with only a hint of an edge.

“Can’t you just call an Uber?” Yuuri muttered. He rubbed his forehead with both hands; it was _throbbing_.

“No, I can’t,” Viktor replied smoothly. “Because I don’t have a phone with me. But if you let me in, I can use yours.”

With his head shoved into his hands—probably smearing more flour and bits of cookie dough in his hair, as per usual—Yuuri groaned quietly. It was like the drunkenness had veered directly into a hangover, yet with no sobriety to be seen. Could Viktor be causing this? Somehow, he had a strong sense that Viktor was to blame. Normal, non-suspicious people were _not_ supposed to rival the moon in sheer incandescent loveliness; it simply wasn’t done.

Grinding both knuckles against his aching eyes, Yuuri asked: “Are you a vampire or something?”

“Um.” Viktor’s lifted hand went from covering his mouth to scratching the corner of it. “Yes.”

Yuuri stared at him through the sweaty curtain of his hands.

Viktor puffed a soft laugh, more like a sigh; it was invisible in the chill. “If you could tell, why didn’t you say so earlier? And I used my glamour so aggressively…Ah, is that why you’re rubbing your temples? I apologize for that. I can be overzealous at times.”

Then Viktor winked. He _winked_.

Woodenly, and without turning, Yuuri trudged back a few steps. “I’m sorry, sir, but—”

A _tsk_. “It’s ‘Viktor’.”

“Viktor. We’re closed. And I have to go back to work.”

Viktor looked stricken as he reached out a hand and said: “Wait! Please—just for a moment?”

And Yuuri was an absolute _idiot_ —because he paused.

The way Viktor perked up when he did was truly unfair.

“Um…ah,” Viktor mumbled, looking around hurriedly. Yuuri briefly wondered what he was up to before the man brightened again, pointing through the door and up at the store speakers. “Oh! This is ‘Carnaval,’ isn’t it?”

Confused, agonized, and still vaguely aroused, Yuuri hadn’t even registered that there was still music playing. Indeed, it was currently Robert Schumann’s “Carnaval,” a masterpiece written for piano solo.

So Viktor must have been…looking for a topic. Yuuri supposed. To make further conversation. But that was so _absurd_ —this whole thing was so bizarre that Yuuri couldn’t wrap his head around it. He was sure that, physically, outwardly, he looked like a gaping fish that had fallen from some great height and sustained a concussion.

“I saw Fokine’s _Carnaval_ , you know,” Viktor said wistfully, seemingly none-the-wiser to Yuuri short-circuiting only a few feet in front of him. “I remember it well—Karsavina could never be so easily forgotten. And it was one of the last performances by the Imperial Ballet I could attend, what with the unrest only a few years later…”

Fokine’s _Carnaval_ —St. Petersburg, 1910.

Yuuri was sure Viktor kept speaking for a bit after that—something about the Vaganova syllabus; he seemed passionate about it, based on how quickly his hands were emoting—but Yuuri’s brain had finally screeched to a stop, like white static, or bundles of cotton shoved into his ears.

He only caught back on to the tail-end: “…Anyway, if I had known you were Sighted, I wouldn’t have bothered with the glamour and the flirting. All right, that’s a lie; I’m no saint, especially not around ones who smell as sweetly as you do. Are you in the Detroit coven? I admit, I’m new to the area, so I don’t know of any others.”

In the new silence, Schumann’s piece wound down and concluded. Viktor kept smiling, gentle and perky.

“I’m…going back to work,” Yuuri finally mumbled, mostly to himself.

But Viktor pressed on: “I’ll come back later. When is your shift over?”

In a snap, Yuuri went stone-still.

There was an animal in the street. The creature was large, black, and pulsing—a set of shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths.

It took one step forward. Then another.

For a long, dread-filled moment, all Yuuri could think was: _What the_ **_hell_ ** _is happening?_

Of a few things, he was sure. One was that Viktor was speaking again; he never seemed to stop. Yuuri was also sure that he was losing his mind, because he had seen one too many strange sights illuminated in this godforsaken moonlight—a creature of shadow; an unearthly man with shimmering fangs and jeweled, catlike eyes; next he’d be seeing the ghost of his grandmother telling him he should’ve just taken her advice and _go into business, Yuu-chan, get an office and a salary._

But the creature was taking more steps now, faster, heavier—and Yuuri knew that he had to decide.

He turned the lock until it _clicked_. Wrenched open the door.

As he grabbed Viktor by the front of his shirt, the man let out a small gasp—“ _Oh”_ —and allowed himself to be dragged inside. Once he was in, Yuuri slammed the door shut with a _clang_ , threw the lock back into place, and peered over Viktor’s shoulder for any sign of movement.

But once more, the creature had simply…disappeared.

Yuuri waited a few seconds to be sure, then exhaled deeply, body relaxing and warm breath glancing off the soft, winter-chilled fabric of Viktor’s shirt.

“Wow,” Viktor said. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you? Yuuri.”

It was then Yuuri realized how near he’d yanked Viktor forward. Their fronts were pressed together, and Yuuri’s hand was still splayed on the man’s sternum. Viktor—without missing a beat—slid one hand up to perch on Yuuri’s waist, ice-shard fingertips soft and playful as they slipped beneath the powdered fabric of Yuuri’s apron.

“Um?” Yuuri mumbled. Conveniently, his brain was shorting out again. Viktor was _cold_.

“Shh…” Viktor whispered, other hand coming up to trace along Yuuri’s squishy jawline. In the dim lighting, his pupils contracted into a rounded-diamond shape, like the petals of a dahlia. “It’s all right. You don’t have to say anything…”

Yuuri caught one last glimpse of those electric-blue irises, their dahlia-petal pupils, before Viktor leaned further forward, head tilting so elegantly to the side…and nuzzled into the curve of Yuuri’s neck.

And bit down.

“Um?!” Yuuri gasped, starting to squirm.

Long fangs slid deep into his skin, and it _hurt_ —though only for a moment. After that initial sharp sting, and a quick withdrawal, Yuuri’s neck went warm and tingly; instinctually, he let his head loll to the side, opening himself up in a bared display.

A deep rumble swept through Viktor’s chest, vibrated against Yuuri’s—was it a moan? _Purr?—_ before Yuuri brought one hand up to the man’s face. Cupped it. Quieted him. Yuuri’s thumb stroked that soft, pale skin in the gentlest swipe, like it was glancing over the chilled, flawless surface of a sculpture—one that grew increasingly warmer, animating under Yuuri’s touch with every gulp of Viktor’s throat; the ivory to Yuuri’s Pygmalion.

And Yuuri’s _neck_ , his skin and blood all abuzz…Viktor’s wide hands gripping his sides and back, rubbing strong fingers up and down his spine…the sheer _feeling_ of it all…

Yuuri had taken a pill at a party once. He’d already been drunk and it had seemed like a grand idea. And for a short while, it had been: elation flooding his system, crashing into his veins and devouring him whole. But what he’d thought was a lazy river had, in truth, been a riptide: that delicious ebb and flow had only sucked him out to sea, dragged him under, and left him drowned, legs tangled in despair like seaweed, throat coughing up panic like saltwater.

Perhaps it could have been better if Yuuri were the type of person who trusted bliss. But in the grand pattern of his life, such a sensation was simply too out of place: rare to arrive, impossible to remain, and never mercifully given—at least, not without a hefty price paid.

The hand cradling Viktor’s face began to tremble and clench. Dull fingernails dug into Viktor’s cheek.

“Stop,” Yuuri gasped out. It was mostly air, hardly a sound. “Get off me.”

He began to shove at Viktor’s face. It seemed to have absolutely no effect.

Yuuri raised his other hand, bundled them both into fists, and brought them down _hard_.

Yuuri shuddered as he felt the wet, velvety touch of a tongue quickly swiping over the bite right before Viktor removed his mouth. “Ow,” Viktor mumbled, cradling the top of his head; his other hand continued to support Yuuri’s form. “Yuuri, why did you _hit_ me—”

That smooth, velvety voice was quashed by knuckles to the nose.

Once he had the chance, Yuuri scrambled out of Viktor’s loosened grip, stumbling a little before he caught his footing. He scanned the room for the first makeshift weapon he could find—a wooden-handled broom—and snatched it up, raising the straw-tail of the broom up over his head like a club.

“Stay back!” He yelled, expecting a fight.

But Viktor hadn’t followed him. He hadn’t even taken a single step, standing stock-still in the entry area of the café like he’d been poleaxed.

Yuuri hoisted the broom even higher. “I’m not afraid to use this!”

The baffled silence returned.

Finally, Viktor broke it with: _“What?”_

“You need to leave,” Yuuri said, nearly in a garble. “Go. Go out. There, through that door.”

Viktor rubbed his nose one-handedly, as though testing its sturdiness. He lifted his other hand, one finger outstretched, as though Yuuri were a waiter to be flagged. “Please, can we just, take a moment—”

“Shut up!” Yuuri took one step forward in something like a mock charge; then he remembered how useless he was in a fight and scrambled backwards again. “I told you to leave! So get out!”

Viktor stopped rubbing his nose in favor of pinching the bridge. “I think there’s been some sort of misunderstanding.”

“I can’t believe you _bit_ me,” Yuuri gasped, gripping the broom handle even tighter.

Viktor huffed crossly. “Trust me, that punch was far worse than my bite.”

“You deserved it!”

“Mm, debatable.”

“You need to leave,” Yuuri repeated. “And don’t you dare come near me, or I’ll—I’ll do it again. Harder.”

“Yuuri, calm down,” Viktor sighed, exasperated. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You just did!”

Those eyes glimmered like opals as Viktor gave him a slick, disbelieving look. “Oh, please. We both know it didn’t _hurt.”_

Yuuri’s face swarmed with color. It matched Viktor’s complexion; the man looked like he’d just run a brisk marathon, lips a deep red and both his cheeks and the tip of his nose flushed. Compared to before, he looked _far_ more alive—more earthly.

Which only served to make him more handsome.

But that thought was _stupid_ , because he was a vampire, one who had _bitten_ _Yuuri’s_ _neck_ —which, besides all the supernatural horror of it, had been quite a dickish, presumptuous move to begin with, and: “Oh god, my neck must be bleeding,” Yuuri whispered hurriedly, bringing one hand away from the broom to grapple at the skin above his shoulder. It was damp—whether with blood or spit, he couldn’t tell—but it wasn’t nearly as wet as he’d expected for a fresh wound.

“Of course not,” Viktor replied with a sharp, testy sigh. “What am I, two-hundred? I wouldn’t let you bleed out.”

Although it wasn’t bleeding, Yuuri’s neck _was_ tingling, a bizarre pins-and-needles sensation. His hands were tingling too—though that was just a familiar side-effect of panic. Most of all, however, his head was pounding; his eyes and the space behind them _ached_.

In what was likely a very stupid move, Yuuri shut his eyes again. “What’s happening?” He mumbled near-silently.

“Well, nothing, because you _punched_ me,” Viktor replied petulantly. “Have you calmed down yet? Why are you acting like some newly awakened…” Viktor’s voice trailed off as he studied Yuuri more closely.

Yuuri stared warily back, hands trembling around the broomstick.

Viktor pressed one finger to the corner of his crimson, plush mouth. Considering. Then his voice and expression both melted into a kind, almost pitying softness. “Oh, _lapochka_.”

Yuuri physically flinched away from the tenderness. “Don’t call me that.”

“Do you know what it means?”

“No.”

“Then you don’t know if it’s true or not,” Viktor said quietly, only lightly teasing. “Now, listen. I won’t hurt you. Can you believe that? If you can, please put down the broom. Let us talk, yes? You are very confused, but I can help with that.”

Yuuri didn’t respond. In the newfound quiet, something was beeping extremely loudly. Screeching. What could it—

_The oven timer._

“ _Ah_ ,” Yuuri breathed out, expression tightening in dread. “I have to—I’m _working_ , I shouldn’t be—”

“Please, let me help you,” Viktor said, tone still dripping in that undesired fondness.

“No.” Yuuri shook his head swiftly; it left him dizzy and reeling. The end of the broomstick made a _thud_ against the café floor before Yuuri leaned on it heavily, trying not to pass out. “You need to leave.”

“Yuuri, I can’t. I know you don’t understand, but—I’m indebted to you now. I _need_ to help you.”

The timer was going off. Yuuri had a job to do. He was on the clock. Viktor had to _leave_ , but he _wouldn’t_.

At a loss for what else to do, Yuuri started to cry. A chorus of droplets pattered from his face onto the café’s hardwood, all while the surreal tinkle of classical piano still seeped through the shop speakers. Through his tears, Yuuri saw Viktor’s flawless face constrict yet again, this time from mildly belittling gentleness to awkward, saucer-eyed horror.

At that terrified expression, Yuuri almost wanted to laugh.

In a rush, Viktor tried for damage control—rather pathetically, in Yuuri’s woozy opinion. He lifted broad hands in a steady, placating manner, like he was gentling a skittish animal, and said: “Ah, no, no, _please_ don’t cry.”

“Get out.” Yuuri’s voice couldn’t get enough air to grow any louder.

“Let me help you. You _need_ help; I can—”

“Get. _Out.”_

“Yuuri. If you’re only now coming into your Sight, it will only get worse from here. Leaving you alone is dangerous at best—”

Yuuri had well and truly had enough. He stomped forward, swinging the broom mindlessly. The timer was still beeping and screeching. Something crashed to the floor; he didn’t know what it was, nor did he bother looking to find out. He just repeated: “out, _out_ ,” with a voice like broken glass, tears running down his face.

Yuuri’s gaze was distorted enough that everything just looked a blur. So even as Viktor turned, unlocked the door, and left, it was like a ghost had blown in then out on the wind—vanishing just as quickly as it’d come, disappearing into the night like the moon dipping behind the trees.

Once he was gone, Yuuri could finally start to calm down.

He dropped the broom with a clatter; placed his hands on his knees. Then he focused on breathing: in, out. In, out.

The fresh memories of what he’d seen flashed deliriously through his weary brain. A man as beautiful and dangerous and otherworldly as the roiling white-capped sea. A creature of shadow, looming and gasping in the darkness.

But remembering those things made his attempt at steady breathing a bit difficult. He clambered for something else to focus on. _Anything_.

The music, continuing to play underneath the shrieking drone of the oven timer. That was good. Divine. A soft drag of a bow over strings; the lively whistle of wind through a flute— _like the strings in my dream_ , he thought—but _no_ , it wasn’t the time for that. It was a time for the music, and that alone.

It was so calming, so grounding, that Yuuri didn’t even feel like lifting his heels off the ground.

When he finally made his way over the oven, turning off the timer and chucking it halfway across the counter, he inspected the loaf. It was burnt to black.

**Author's Note:**

> [I have a tumblr again!](https://pandabomb.tumblr.com/) I don't do much there, but you might see some snibits from my AUs, especially things that never made the final cut here on ao3.
> 
> Fair warning, this fic is going to get a little darker and probably go up in rating. At its heart I want to keep this fic fun and light, but it'll probably be Mature by the end.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please comment if you'd like more! I treasure and adore all feedback I receive, even if I don't usually reply to it. tbh I'm pretty shy... ;;


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